


Take My Breath Away

by SStar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jealous Sherlock, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Snark, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times in a day Sherlock and Mycroft find themselves kissing each other - and one time they did a little bit more than just kiss.</p><p>Kisses, lots of kisses, all the kisses. Brotherly affection and a healthy dose of snark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing but my own filthy mind.  
> Unbeta'd but edited - all mistakes are my very own.
> 
>  _“A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear.”_ Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac

Sherlock isn’t sure what wakes him in the middle of the night. It’s when he shifts position that he realises something’s wrong. Something is missing.

Not something. Someone.

 _His_ irritating, insufferable, abominable big brother.

He flings an arm out and his sleep-fogged mind recognises that the sheets are cool, but not cold. It can’t have been more than an hour or so then. Sherlock grumbles as he pulls himself from out under the duvet and pulls on his dressing gown. He makes his way quietly, not for deception but it feels wrong somehow to shatter the silence of the night, through cold hallways and past empty rooms.

He stops outside of the study. A sliver of soft, golden light outlines the door. Sherlock wonders whether he should be surprised.

The door opens with a creak. A rather quaint security measure, Sherlock thinks. But if all else fails, the split-second of warning might save Mycroft’s life.

Mycroft is sitting at his desk. Eyes focussed on his laptop and phone at the ready. Sherlock realises his brother looks worried.

“How long have you been up?”

“A while,” Mycroft replies. “Just over an hour. I didn’t wake you?”

“No.” Sherlock crosses the room until he’s standing at his brother’s side. “What happened?”

Mycroft sighs and runs a hand through already dishevelled hair. “One of our agents is off the grid.”

“Killed, captured or defected?”

“His status is unknown. The agent was in the middle of acquiring some key intelligence but triggered a safeguard upon egress. That in turn loaded an AI program which trapped the agent in the building.”

“Trapped?” Sherlock prompts after Mycroft falls and remains silent.

“My team contacted me – after they established a remote connection to the AI.”

“What sort of incompe-“

“The AI is some variation of a chess grandmaster program,” Mycroft interrupts. “The AI’s designer has an unusual concept of a security system.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies. “You won?”

“Of course.”

“Time?”

“Not comparable. It was a time-limited game,” Mycroft answers, voice heavy with exhaustion. “If I didn’t defeat the AI before the time expired the protocols were set to automatically ignite a series of explosives that would level the building and surrounding area after seventeen minutes.”

Sherlock huffs. “Sounds like the programmer could do with some remedial chess lessons.”

“Indeed.”

“Then why are you still up,” Sherlock asks. “You’re only going to make your frown lines worse.”

“Charming as usual, brother dear. Why don’t you pop off back to bed and mind your own wrinkles.”

Sherlock scowls and pokes his brother, who directs a mild glare back up at him. “Vanity thy name is Mycroft,” he retorts. “I’ve seen your wardrobe remember.”

Mycroft, it seems, has decided to ignore his insult. “We don’t have any eyes in the building and it’s still in lockdown. I may have prevented our agent’s imminent death but we don’t know whether he can manage to escape or whether a secondary security measure has come online.”

Sherlock rests his left hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezes. He schools his face to mask his concern when he notices how his brother trembles under his touch. Particularly since it’s not the good kind of trembling.

“It’s been a little over ten minutes since I defeated the AI. I’ve directed a team to his location but until either the agent or the team make contact …” Mycroft shrugs.

In the privacy of the study, in these early hours between midnight and dawn, Sherlock is allowed to see his worry, his exhaustion. Sherlock sighs softly, moves his hand so it curls around the back of Mycroft’s neck.

A gesture of comfort.

He dips his head and presses a soft, dry kiss to Mycroft’s temple. A long moment later Sherlock pulls back. “Let me get you a drink, Mycroft.”

“You don’t need to stay up, Sherlock. At least one of us should get some sleep.”

“I’m used to going without.”

“Which is why you should get as much as possible when you do,” Mycroft chastises. Always the protector.

Sherlock flicks him the finger as he strides out of the study. Doesn’t try to hide his smirk as he pictures the exasperated look he knows Mycroft is throwing at his back.

He fixes two cups of tea, some herbal infusion he knows Mycroft likes on rare occasions. No caffeine. After all, Sherlock knows he still has to deal with Mycroft come morning and his brother will be utterly detestable if he’s too edgy when – if – they finally get back to their bed that night.

Cups in hand, no saucers because he can’t help but flaunt his disregard for etiquette when it vexes his brother so, Sherlock nudges the door open again. Mycroft’s voice – low, demanding, authoritative – fills the study. He’s on his phone, his eyes tracking something only he can see on his laptop.

Sherlock places the cup near Mycroft’s hand, watches as curls of steam escape. He’s mildly curious as to the agent’s fortunes but easily deduces from Mycroft’s demeanour that the man is not dead. Instead Sherlock walks over to one of Mycroft’s many wingback chairs and folds his body into it. Holds his own cup securely in his hands. The hot tea warms his own cold fingers.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. Let’s Mycroft’s steady, reassuring voice wash over him.

 

* * *

 

It’s when he registers the dual sensations of a thumb tracing a path across his jawline and the now-cold cup being wrestled from his grasp that Sherlock realises he must have drifted off. In front of Mycroft.

He flushes. Blinks rapidly as awareness and memory returns.

Mycroft’s face, his lovely blue eyes – currently looking tired, relieved and _soft_ with something – take up most of Sherlock’s vision.

“Sorry,” Sherlock apologies although he’s not quite sure the he manages to complete the simple word as a yawn overtakes him. He rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes in an attempt to hasten wakefulness.

Mycroft grins, although it’s tempered by fatigue. “You’re adorable.”

Sherlock pouts. “I’m too old to be adorable.”

“Never.”

“Are you all sorted?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. Sherlock can see grim satisfaction in his face and he’s relieved for his brother. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“What time is it,” Sherlock asks as he allows his brother to pull him from the chair. Mycroft takes his hand in his own and leads him out of the study and back up the stairs.

“Late enough that I’ll only get a few hours before I have to be up again.”

“Oh.”

“It could have been worse.”

By now they’ve made it back to their bedroom. Mycroft, who seems far too alert for Sherlock’s liking, extracts his dressing gown from around heavy limbs. Pushes him back onto the bed. A few seconds later, Sherlock feels the mattress dip as Mycroft, his gown also discarded, joins him under the sheets.

Sherlock turns to face Mycroft. Pulls him closer until his brother is curled around him. Sherlock relaxes when his brother presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“I do hope you’re not going to be disagreeable in the morning.”

Mycroft snorts into his hair. “It’s already morning. And of the two of us, I’m not the bratty one.”

“M’not a brat.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, brother dear.”

Sherlock feels Mycroft’s lips on him again. This time a gentle kiss on his cheek that feels like a cold brand in the cool night air.

He decides he’ll let Mycroft have the last word tonight. He enjoys having Mycroft curled around him too much to start a petty argument at this obscene time of the morning.

Even if Sherlock knows he is right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ _Breathtaking adj. Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word._ ” David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary

The first thing Mycroft notices isn’t the sunlight streaming through his window. It’s not his partially numb feet, which are bare and cold because Sherlock regularly acquires most of the duvet at some point during their slumber.

It’s the feel of Sherlock’s lips as he leaves light, fluttering kisses against his skin, taking a path only he knows up the side of his neck. Follows the curve of his ear, dropping down his cheekbone. Ends on the tip of his nose.

Sherlock is always careful to pay attention to his nose, much to Mycroft’s dismay. Although he does allow that the kisses are far more preferable to the teasing.

Mycroft cracks open one eye – no danger – then the other. “You’re awake,” he murmurs.

Rather than reply, Sherlock ducks his head and kisses him again. Soft, warm kisses without intent or demand. And they require his undivided attention. Nevertheless Mycroft can feel the silent _obviously_ in the curve of his brother’s lips when they first meet his. He indulges in the feel of Sherlock upon him until he’s running the tip of his tongue gently across Sherlock’s plush lips, asking for entry, when his brother abruptly pulls away.

In that split second, Mycroft is already running multiple scenario calculations in his mind – a root cause analysis for Sherlock’s reaction – when his unpredictable little brother distracts him by marking the outline of his jaw with a thumb.

“Do stop overthinking, Mycroft. This isn’t a national crisis,” his brother tells him.

“Well I think that rather depends on your perspective,” Mycroft replies, trying to hold back the sulk he wants to indulge in.

Sherlock throws him a sly smile and he’s tempted to drop a smack on his little brother’s rump.

“Your breath stinks,” he explains rather snottily. “I absolutely refuse to kiss you any longer until you’ve brushed your teeth. Do hurry on back, Mycroft.”

And with that pronouncement, Sherlock flops back over to his side of the bed – the side that _used_ to be Mycroft’s not all that long ago and he has yielded to the inevitability that is his little brother – with all grace of a West End leading lady.

Mycroft merely rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatics and pushes himself out of their bed. A glance at the time as he pads towards the en-suite and he’s made up his mind.

Sherlock will just have to wait for his kiss.

There’s a busy day of work ahead of him after all. The fallout from his intervention in his team’s mission needs Mycroft’s attention and he’s loathed to leave this particular agent-on-loan to his own devices for longer than is absolutely necessary.

He’s still in the middle of mentally reorganising his day’s various commitments – all the while continuing his morning absolutions – and is just about to step into the shower when he hears Sherlock call out from the bedroom.

“Oh, I suppose I’ll just waste away here while you tart yourself up then?”

Mycroft dislikes projecting his voice unnecessarily, he reserves that particular tone for interfering and annoying politicians, so he ignores Sherlock. Instead he steps into the shower. When he emerges, his brother – all lean lines and messy, rumpled hair – is leaning near the door, holding out a towel.

“You work too hard,” his brother tells him, a frown marring his handsome face.

Too busy patting his face, hair and arms dry, Mycroft doesn’t immediately reply. So when he does finally looks up he catches Sherlock looking intently at him and he flushes. Just a little to his immense relief. “The unexpected situation from earlier this morning requires my attention, as you well know. Anyway you’re hardly one to talk, brother dear,” he throws back.

“Perhaps we should take a break?” Sherlock suggests hesitantly. “Together.”

Mycroft is bent over dabbing at the stray water droplets on his lower body and legs when Sherlock suggests taking a holiday and he almost loses his balance as he abruptly straightens up to gawk at his brother. He takes in every aspect of Sherlock – pale skin growing blotchy, how his little finger on his right hand twitches involuntarily. But his eyes are clear and steady and bursting with sentiment.

“I agree.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly at his reply. Sounds surprised. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft realises he’s far from averse to the idea of a holiday together. But then he’s never before had a lover with whom he’s felt comfortable sharing his isolation with. Then again he’s never really considered a great many things with Sherlock in the part of ‘lover’ but he’s looking forward to exploring it for as long as his brother lets him.

The smile Sherlock graces him with is stunning. Mycroft makes a mental note to get Sherlock to smile like that more often.

That stunning, gorgeous, enticing smile doesn’t last as long as Mycroft would like. “Thank god you’re done hogging the shower,” Sherlock rebukes. Although he makes sure to press his hands and torso against Mycroft’s bare skin as he passes him to get to the shower.

Mycroft smiles fondly. Ignores the sound of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms hitting the floor because if he turns around he’ll be tempted to join his delightfully sinful brother in the shower.

Instead he does the logical thing – always sensible Mycroft – wraps the towel around his hips and removes himself from temptation. Back in his bedroom, there at the foot of his bed, Sherlock has laid out a set of clothes for him. His pin stripe suit, a pale blue shirt, dark blue tie with small Fleurs de Lis and a plain silk pocket square that matches the dark blue of his tie. He’s even picked out a pair of briefs, socks and a tie-pin.

Really, Sherlock could be rather thoughtful at times.

As he reaches for the briefs and socks, Mycroft decides he’ll return the favour that evening.

 

* * *

 

Adding just the right amount of milk to his personal preference and a quick stir later, Mycroft allows himself to take a moment to enjoy the aroma of a well-made cup of tea.

He thinks nothing quite defines a civilised society than the availability and aptitude to brew a decent pot of tea.

Mycroft is finishing up his slice of toast and marmalade, a small concession to indulgence, by the time Sherlock finds his way to the kitchen where Mycroft prefers to take breakfast. He fixes Sherlock a cup of tea first, two spoons of sugar, and places it on a coaster to his left where his brother now sits. Their shoulders brush as Mycroft takes an empty bowl and fills it with cereal and milk before he pushes it towards his brother.

“Eat,” he says as he leans over to drop a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’re such a mother-hen. You do know that I am quite capable of feeding myself. Or are you planning on spoon-feeding me too?”

“Oh hush,” Mycroft retorts in a fond tone. A quick glance to his left and he notices his peck has left a stick mark on Sherlock’s skin.

Feeling mischievous he leans into Sherlock’s personal space once again. Notes how his brother watches him out the corner of his vision. When Mycroft is but millimetres away he flicks his tongue against the mark. And again just to make sure the sticky imprint of marmalade is all gone.

When he pulls back he notices Sherlock is pulling a face. A reflex more than anything else as he rubs at the slightly wet patch of skin. “ _Mycroft_ ,” he whines.

He hums in response. “Yes, dear?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. It’s just a bloody shame everyone thinks you’re the good one! If only they knew.”

Mycroft wonders what is says about him that he thinks a pouting Sherlock is rather endearing.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares at him. Ignores his breakfast. “You’re planning something,” he deduces.

He shrugs in response and only once he’s completed the gesture does Mycroft realise he must have picked it up from his little brother. He decides not to dwell on it, instead nudges the forgotten bowl of cereal and with a pointed look conveys his desire for Sherlock to continue eating. “I have a lot to accomplish today if I’m to get away at a decent hour this evening.”

“The agent who got into that spot of bother.”

Mycroft nods. “Amongst other things.”

“Mycroft!”

He hides his amusement with a dismissive click of his tongue and a heavenward roll of his eyes which just makes Sherlock huff again. “Well I had thought about surprising you but since you seem determined to set about ruining it,” he says. “I thought we might go out to dinner this evening.”

There’s a pause before Sherlock replies.

“Just so you know. You can and do surprise me, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies. Drops his shields as his eyes capture his own and Mycroft can’t breathe for a long moment and he doesn’t care. It’s a beautiful hurt.

“Now go away so I can finish breakfast,” Sherlock says abruptly. “You’ll only spend the entire day whinging at me if I don’t.”

“Heaven forbid,” Mycroft replies dotingly as he stands. Draws his fingers through the short curls at Sherlock’s nape as he walks out of the kitchen to gather the items he’ll need for when his car arrives in a short while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ _A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one_.” Guy de Maupassant

_6:47_

Sherlock chances another look at his wristwatch and scowls. Normally he’d have left Mycroft’s by now. Be back in Baker Street and in his own bed before Mrs Hudson brewed his morning cup of tea.

But there’s something about his older brother that’s keeping him from leaving and Sherlock only has minutes before Mycroft’s car arrives to figure out what his brother is hiding.

And Mycroft _is_ hiding something.

He can’t help the knot of jealousy that twists in his gut. Sherlock has been under the misapprehension it gone after that mess with _Him_ so he’s a little surprised when he discovers it’s been hiding under the surface all along.

And that he’s struck with the sudden urge to stake his claim on Mycroft, brother and lover both.

He’s loitering in the hallway when he finally hears a car come to a stop outside. Moments later, Mycroft is walking towards him, the door really, already wearing his overcoat - umbrella and briefcase in hand.

He allows Mycroft to drop a soft, dry kiss on his cheek as he makes to pass Sherlock by. But before Mycroft gets the opportunity to say goodbye and walk away, Sherlock grabs his coat lapels and pulls. Spins them both around and backs his brother against the wall. Kisses him. He doesn’t start chaste or sweet. Jumps straight into hot, demanding and with teeth. The moan he wrings out of Mycroft only spurs him on.

There’s a _thump-thump_ as the umbrella and briefcase fall to the floor. They don’t care. Mycroft’s hands find a welcome home in Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock’s hands are clamped around Mycroft’s hips as he shifts and brings their bodies together. When Mycroft’s head tilts back, moaning, he takes advantage and trails a series of quick, light kisses down his neck. Picks a spot and with Mycroft so delightfully distracted, Sherlock bites down. Although his brother jerks in his embrace, Mycroft groans with pleasure and tilts his head further giving him better access. Sherlock hums happily as he alternately licks and sucks at the reddening area of skin.

He knows time’s running out. Mycroft’s remarkable mind won’t be distracted for much longer.

Sherlock’s hands start to trace a path across his brother’s body – luxuriates in soft wool, touches smooth cotton and slides across silk – as his mouth continues his ministrations on Mycroft’s neck before he finally pulls away with a _pop_. The diffusive feeling of satisfaction fills him as he sees how Mycroft is affected – flushed and panting.

And wanting. His lips red, wet and swollen from their kisses. Eyes dilated, his exquisite shade of blue a mere thin ring.

He imagines he looks much the same.

Impulsively Sherlock leans forwards and kisses Mycroft indulgently one last time before taking a step back.

When Mycroft finally speaks, it’s in a low, gravelly tone that makes Sherlock want to take his brother back upstairs. “Sherlock,” he says in a commanding tone.

“What?” Sherlock’s still fighting to get his breathing back under control.

“I know you took it,” his brother states, his hand held palm up expectantly. “I have need of it today I’m afraid so do please hand it over.”

 _Damn._ A flick of his wrist and the pilfered ID card is visible. Sherlock hands it over with a huff.

Mycroft slips his ID card back into a suit pocket. “Why take it today? You don’t have a case on at the moment.”

“Just bored,” Sherlock replies flippantly with a shrug. “Thought I’d see if your observational skills are still up to par.”

He ignores the dubious look his brother throws at him. Instead pretends to peek out of the window at the waiting car. Sherlock allows the sliver of smugness in his demeanour – at having diverted Mycroft sufficiently that he’s temporarily forgotten the love-bite so prominently displayed on his neck.

 _His_ claim. _His_ mark.

“Do get a move on, Mycroft. You know how you dislike being late,” Sherlock prompts. He needs time and space to figure out what his brother is hiding.

Mycroft bends to pick up his fallen briefcase and umbrella and Sherlock ignores the debauched images his mind generates. Once in hand, his brother takes the few steps to the front door and twists the handle until the lock mechanism unclicks but he doesn’t immediately open the door. “Sherlock. Please do _try_ to stay out of trouble today?” he asks. “I’ll talk to you later.”

With that promise, Mycroft opens the door, crosses the boundary – the invisible line between them and the rest of the world – and closes the door behind him.

Sherlock turns, hurries towards the study to find his coat, scarf and gloves. He has a mystery to investigate.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good is it, Andrea?” Mycroft grouches even as he reminds himself to throw her a smile to gentle his words. “It’s as if you weren’t up half the night handling our little situation.”

“It’s amazing what coffee, porridge and a spot of make-up can do for you,” his executive assistant replies with a smile as she taps away at her phone. He knows she’s already anticipated his needs and is contacting his assistants to reorganise his day. It’s when he’s pulling off his coat that he hears her surprised, sharp intake of breath.

“Yes?”

Mycroft waits for the explanation but when it doesn’t readily come he looks over at Andrea, whose own gaze is fixed upon his neck. It’s only when he brushes his fingers against the skin there that Mycroft realises he has a small bruise.

_Sherlock. Pilfering his ID card. Moaning. His brother’s long, lean body pressing against his own. Sucking, kissing his neck._

Andrea’s expression switches back and forth between bemusement and amusement.

He’s going to kill Sherlock.

“I assume you didn’t realise you had a … _love-bite_?” Andrea asks tentatively. Her phone is forgotten for the time being.

Mycroft fights the urge to blush and barely succeeds. “I think it’s safe to assume that given the evidence in front of you.”

“I have some make-up you could use to try and cover the mark,” she offers kindly. “It might be a tad dark for your skin but I’m sure if we mix it with a little moisturiser...”

He barely needs two seconds to balance the positives and negatives before he agrees. As he’s covering the mark with make-up, after refusing Andrea’s offer of help because the situation is humiliating enough as it is, Mycroft works through a mental exercise.

Decides shooting his irritating little brother would be too quick and simple. Perhaps strangulation. Or poison.

Or a very thorough spanking.

He examines his neck in the full-length mirror. There’s a slightly darker patch of skin where he’s applied Andrea’s make-up but he decides if he keeps the lighting in his office darker than usual then only the sharp-eyed are likely to notice. And if someone were to see, they’d surely not dare to mention it to Mycroft himself.

Andrea has been hovering around him and it is abundantly clear she has something uncomfortable to say to him. Mycroft glances her way and holds in a sigh as he makes his way back to his desk, detouring briefly to pull a manila file from the corner cabinet before taking his seat. Gestures at Andrea that she should take the chair opposite. As she sits, Mycroft observes that there’s no hint of awkwardness or hesitation in her demeanour now.

He’s a little bit proud of her. Definitely the right decision to promote her out of the assistant pool those years ago.

She fixes him with an incisive stare. “Sir, we’ll need to undertake a security check on your partner.”

Always diplomatic. Sometimes even more so than he is.

Mycroft takes the file he’s still holding in his hands and hands it to his EA and indicates she should look inside. Patiently waits for the expected follow-up.

“There are key details, their identifying, I mean your partner’s identifying details are redacted,” she states. No judgement or challenge.

“I know,” Mycroft acknowledges. “The agent who completed the checks will be in shortly, I believe his flight landed an hour ago. He’ll be able to confirm that the correct procedures were followed and that everything is in order but for security purposes, my partner’s name and all other identifying information has been redacted or deleted.”

“That’s atypical.”

“But acceptable in specific circumstances. As you know I take my personal security seriously, on top of that which comes with the position I hold,” he says, acknowledging Andrea’s quirked eyebrow. “And as you’re acquainted with the agent who undertook the interview with my partner, I’m sure you’ll agree everything is without reproach.”

Mycroft can still remember the dull thuds of overturned furniture. Having rushed to the reception room he found Sherlock in a headlock. His brother, it appeared, had already inflicted a punch that not only would blossom into a livid bruise the next day but left drops of blood on the other man’s otherwise pristine white shirt. And with his perfect memory Mycroft also remembers the possessive kisses Sherlock bestowed upon him once out of the headlock, and then again later that night.

“When in service of Queen and Country, yes,” Andrea says, interrupting his musings.

“Wonderful. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss about this matter?”

“Just one thing.”

Mycroft levels a look at his invaluable executive assistant. Scrutinises her but he can’t read her in this instance. “Yes?”

Andrea smiles at him and it’s sweet and pleased. With perhaps a hint of relief. “Congratulations, Mr Holmes. He’s a lucky man.”

He’s taken aback and merely blinks for a second. “Thank you,” he finally says. There’s an awkward pause while he mentally shakes himself down. Recomposes. Then it’s back to business. “I presume you’re already working with my diary assistant to rearrange today’s meetings so we can focus on last night and what happened?”

Andrea looks as relieved as he feels to be back on firmer, familiar ground. “Yes,” she confirms, her fingers back on her phone. “You’ll see the changes once you’re logged on although I think we’ll need to move the late afternoon meeting with the Treasury to give you time to get to Vauxhall Cross. I thought it best to meet Mallory on familiar ground.”

Mycroft pulls a face. “You mean I should let him whine and whinge at me until he feels better?”

“Well if you insist on borrowing his agents.”

“It’s not like he’s any more capable of keeping his double-ohs under control,” Mycroft gripes. “I’m confident the changes you’re making to my diary are fine, my dear. One thing you won’t be aware of. Can you ask Sarah to book out some time for dinner this evening? Ask her to call Murano and book a table in my name.”

“For two?”

He ignores the amused quirk of her lips. Realises he’ll have to tolerate such behaviour from now on, although he trusts Andrea to remain absolutely discrete.

Before he can confirm any further details, a new voice – this one deep, articulate and quintessentially British – interrupts him. “I didn’t realise saving me from near certain death would be rewarded by a dinner date, Mycroft. If I’d known that I’d have made sure to find myself in such a situation months ago!”

“The dinner reservations aren’t for your benefit, James.” Mycroft replies with a roll of his eyes.

“Well that’s a shame. Looks like I’m in town without a date then.”

“Something I’m sure you’ll rectify easily enough.”

“You wound me, Mycroft.”

“I’m sure you’ll get over it soon enough, Mr Bond.”

“I was James not a moment ago!” The agent protests, eliciting a snort of amusement from Andrea as Mycroft glares at him. The MI6 agent’s ice blue eyes are dancing with humour and Mycroft finds he has to work hard not to smile in response. “Where did the romance go?” James bemoans.

“James, as I’ve told you several times. You’re not my type.”

The blond has the audacity to leer at him. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“ _James._ ”

“ _Mycroft._ ”

“Do grow up, James,” Mycroft chastises. “We have a lot to discuss this morning, including how you, a seasoned double-oh, managed to trip the security alarm on what was a simple extraction of intelligence files.”

The MI6 agent scowls which Mycroft easily ignores. “I don’t know who’s worse. You or Mallory,” the blond comments.

“I assume it depends on which _M_ is sending you out on the next deadly mission,” Andrea replies with a smile.

James smirks. “My dear Andrea, it depends on the telling off,” he confides. “Some are much more enjoyable than others.”

Mycroft decides that he’d bang his head against his desk if it wasn’t so utterly unbecoming. “ _James!_ ”

Andrea throws Mycroft an amused look, the one that says she knows what he’s thinking as she stands. However, as she makes to leave the office she’s waylaid by the blond agent, who drops a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Mr Bond,” she says in her usual uninterested tone, although Mycroft notes a curl teasing the corner of her lips. “I require a word once you’re done with Mr Holmes about a security check you undertook on his request. Procedure, you understand.”

James throws him a look over Andrea’s shoulder and Mycroft gives a shake of his head in return as he reaches into his jacket for his phone. When James nods to confirm he understands, the small bundle of tension that’s been growing since his _love-bite_ was exposed dissipates.

“I’ll make sure to drop by before I leave,” James confirms. “Perhaps I could persuade you to join me for lunch and we could discuss the matter, Andrea?”

Mycroft ignores the agent flirting with his assistant as he starts a text to Sherlock. _Booked a table for dinner …_

“Mr Bond. Unlike many people of your acquaintance I’m sure, I don’t mix business and pleasure,” Andrea replies.

“You’re missing out,” James bats back. Mycroft notes the blond is putting on one of his more charming smiles.

“Not according to Eve.”

“Now, now. You shouldn’t trust everything Eve tells you,” James replies quickly, gesturing with his hand at his body. “You do know she _shot_ me?”

“I imagine there are a great many people who would willingly succumb to that particular urge,” Mycroft remarks, finding himself somewhat distracted from his task. Luckily he’s accomplished at multi-tasking and so continues typing and sends the message as he directs a look towards the MI6 agent, clearly indicating he should take a seat and focus on their upcoming conversation. “James, please stop distracting Andrea with your inevitable failure at flirting. She rather busy as a result of the consequences of the operation last night.”

“Fine,” James huffs, glaring at him as he stalks towards the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk. He unbuttons the dark grey jacket as he sits down. “Are you wearing _make-up_ , Mycroft?”

The urge to bang his head against his desk returns as Mycroft takes a deep breath. He ignores the near-silent giggle from Andrea’s as she exits his office.

Once they hear the distinctive click of the office door closing, James follows up on his observation. “A love-bite? I assume Sherlock got a touch territorial when he discovered I was on a mission for you?”

“No, I didn’t mention it and he couldn’t have known…” Mycroft trails off into silence as the morning’s events repeat in his mind. “Ah.”

“Ah indeed,” James replies with a laugh. “I imagine you’ll need the Holmes’ equivalent of flowers for your date this evening, Mycroft.”

Mycroft realises he doesn’t have a comeback. Or a plan of action to handle Sherlock. He apportions a small part of his mind to resolve that particular situation. “Your advice is noted, James. Now perhaps we can focus on what happened in Geneva and why someone would place such a trap for what we assumed was merely classified information.”

“Let’s do. I do so prefer to know who is out to kill me,” James replies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Happiness is like a kiss – it feels best when you give it to someone else.” _Unknown__

_Booked a table for dinner tonight at Muranos. Are you free? M_

Sherlock glares at his phone but the message remains the same.

He’ll never admit it out loud. Not to John. Or Lestrade. Or god forbid, Mrs Hudson. But Sherlock is befuddled.

They don’t do dinner – he and Mycroft. Not as brothers. Not as a couple. Never. Well, certainly not since _that_ last time.

Not that Sherlock considers the incident his fault. Surely it was obvious to everyone that the Head Sommelier and their waitress were having an affair.

How utterly pedestrian and dull.

Why else did the idiot, Sherlock reasoned at the time, recommend such an _inferior_ Californian red to go with their venison if he hadn’t been so enthralled with the waitress’ inferior charms?

Perhaps he could have been a little more tactful about it, in retrospect.

Sherlock had thrown out the clothes he’d worn to the restaurant that night the very moment he’d entered his bedroom.

Mycroft, on the other hand, had _whined_ about his ruined suit – the blue one – all the way to Sherlock’s flat, and presumably on the journey back to his own place. If anyone could mourn the loss of a suit, it was Mycroft. For days, possibly weeks, Sherlock thinks.

It had been ever so dull. And to this day his odd brother refuses to have another blue suit made.

An absolute shame, in Sherlock’s considered opinion.

Still. A dinner invitation. Tonight.

Which, when added to the fact that Mycroft is blatantly hiding something, is a bit … not good.

Deciding he needs an outside perspective – a pseudo-expert – Sherlock stabs at his phone with enough force that he’s surprised the screen doesn’t crack, until he finds the contact he’s been searching for. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for the line to connect.

“Hello. Sherlock?”

“Molly. Are you free? Of course you are.” Sherlock asks and answers at once. “I need your help with something.”

Molly’s reply is full of indignation although Sherlock detects the thread of amusement underlining it. “How do you know I’m not busy? I could be in the middle of a dissection.”

Sherlock huffs, loudly, before he reels off his deduction. “It’s obvious you’re not in the lab. I can hear the inane chatter of your dull-minded colleagues in the background, which is only occasionally drowned out by the hissing of the drinks machine dispensing another insipid coffee, which means you’re taking a break in the staff canteen.”

“What do you need, Sherlock?”

Sherlock secretly likes this spunkier version of Molly – not that he’s planning on telling her. On his bad days he can still feel the sting of her hand slapping his face. “I need some … advice.”

“Advice? From me?”

“People do ask you for advice, don’t they?”

“Well yes, but not you. You usually only ever want to know something specific about the human anatomy or want body parts for some experiment or another.”

“Oh no, nothing quite like that. Although would you be able to sort me out with a selection of tongues?”

“ _Human tongues_? What for?”

“I’ve got an idea for an experiment-“

“Sherlock, stop! I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need to know.”

“Oh. Right. Well then …”

“You wanted some advice?” Molly prompts.

Sherlock adjusts his grip on his phone, his hand is clammy he realises, as he formulates the phrasing of his question. “What does it mean if someone asks you out for dinner when you and said person never do dinner.”

“Dinner?” Molly sounds confused. “Wait? Is this with the mysterious person John mentioned you’ve been seeing?”

“He did?” Sherlock scowls. “Good lord, he’s such a gossip!”

“That’s not much of an indictment coming from you, Sherlock,” Molly replies with a laugh. “So is it?”

Glad that Molly can’t see him over the phone, Sherlock replies in a carefully modulated tone. “It might be. So?”

“Well lots of couples do normal couple-type things, like dinner.”

“Normal?” Sherlock spits. “I’m not normal.”

“Sherlock, that’s not news to anyone.” Sherlock can almost hear her smile. “Why couldn’t it just be dinner? Perhaps your _boyfriend_ doesn’t want to cook?”

“We don’t do dinner as I’ve already explained,” he clarifies with a sniff. “There was an incident the last time.”

“Oh.” Molly pauses and Sherlock finds himself tapping his fingers on the nearest surface impatiently. “Okay, so in my experience dinner is usually romantic – normally an anniversary; dinners can be to discuss business, say thank you, a way to break-up or something else.” Molly’s voice turns thoughtful. “Maybe he wants to thank you for something? Have you been behaving?”

“Why would _I_ be the one who’s misbehaving?”

He winces at the fondness in Molly’s tone. “Sherlock. I know you, remember. And John tells me things. And Greg. Oh, and Mrs Hudso-”

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock interrupts. “That’s quite enough from you, and everyone else it seems. You’re a bunch of gossiping old biddies!”

“So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Do something nice,” Molly prods. “Because, Sherlock, I know you try and pretend you’re above it all but I know you can be nice when you want to be.”

“I’m not nice.” And he isn’t pouting either.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Molly’s voice changes. Becomes more serious. Concerned. Caring. “Sherlock?”

“Molly?”

“Is he, this mysterious man of yours, is he good enough for you?”

Sherlock finds his lips curl into a soft smile and he doesn’t mind. His voice is a soft rumble when he finally answers Molly. “I don’t think I’m good enough for him.”

“Of course you are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock coughs. For rather obvious reasons he wants – needs – to stop the conversation. “Goodbye, Molly.”

He thinks Molly is about to say something else but she doesn’t. “I’ll call when you can come collect the tongues.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock hangs up, pockets the phone before getting up to pace between the fireplace and sofa. “John? No, too likely to connect the dots. Mary? Still sleep deprived. Mrs Hudson? Not even an option!”

He stops pacing and flings himself into his chair. Brings his fingers together as he stills and considers all the facts. “Andrea,” he says to himself as everything coalesces into a pattern, at the centre of which is Mycroft’s executive assistant pulling the strings.

Phone back in his hand, he brings up the contact details for Mycroft’s _Girl Friday_ – he winces as the memory from the one and only time he called Andrea by that name replays in his mind. He’d always assumed high heels were every woman’s secret weapon until that point, but now he has incontrovertible proof.

He recalls the snarky text he received once he’d managed to hobble back to Baker Street where he’d remained flat-bound for days. _And_ he had to buy Andrea an expensive gift to add insult to injury.

Not that he’d been left with much of a choice after Mycroft had delivered his edict – that he was withholding all nocturnal activities until Andrea had deemed him suitably sorry and forgiven. Of course Sherlock pointed out that left them all the hours of the day in which to misbehave with a mischievous grin. Mycroft, however, had merely given him one of his enigmatic looks and left.

Who knew Andrea could be such a cock block.

Sherlock speaks as soon as the line connects. “Is Mycroft free?”

“Sherlock?” Andrea sounds thrown for a moment. “What have you done?”

“Why is that always your first question?”

“Experience,” comes the glib reply. “Combined with a personal and intimate knowledge to your lack of tact and self-regard.”

Sherlock scowls. “I apologised! And I still have the scar!”

“Well deserved,” Andrea replies smugly. “However back to the point. I’m afraid your brother is in a meeting.”

“So? Interrupt him.”

“No.”

Making a quick calculation, Sherlock decides to go in for misdirection. “With his doctor no doubt,” he sneers. “Assessing the impact of his latest diet?”

Andrea, predictably, is quick to Mycroft’s defence. “Don’t be mean, Sherlock. Besides he looks to be his slimmest for quite a while.”

“Preening is he?” Sherlock asks, the imagined visual lending laughter to his voice.

“I’ve not noticed,” Andrea replies in her primmest tone which makes Sherlock laugh louder.

“Oh go on, give me details, Andrea.”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“All work and no play makes Mycroft ever so dull. I would hate it if you went the same way,” Sherlock wheedles.

“Sherlock, I deal in secrets and classified information. I can’t gossip”

“I’m not asking about that dull stuff and it’s not as I can’t just hack your systems if I did want to know.”

There’s a huff at the other end of the line. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Naughty,” Sherlock says smirking. “Anyway, I’m just after some Mycroft gossip that I can surprise him with when he next bothers me!”

“And what do I get out of it? Especially when Mycroft, _my boss_ , finds out because you and I both know he’ll instantly know it was me!”

All sort of naughty images form in Sherlock’s mind but he pushes them aside. He tries to keep his tone from being overly lewd but doesn’t quite succeed. “Oh, I’m sure I can persuade him to forgive you, Andrea.” He coughs and tries again. “It’s for a good cause,” he says.

Andrea capitulates with a sigh. “If you get me sacked so help me,” she says before dropping her voice to a near-whisper. “He came in today with a _love-bite_. I had to give him some of my make-up to cover it up!”

He smirks but manages to keep his voice even. “Mycroft is much too vain to leave a love-bite for everyone to see,” he says. “But I’ll bet you he’ll be touching the left side of his neck all day to make sure it’s still there, even if he acts all prissy about it.”

Andrea giggles in response to his comment. “So do _you_ know who this mysterious someone is?”

“I couldn’t even begin to imagine!” Sherlock lies.

“But I’m glad, you know. He shouldn’t be lonely.” Andrea sounds relieved.

Sherlock falls back in his chair, filled with a strange sensation. The secrecy so essential to their relationship means he and Mycroft find themselves bereft of platitudes and commentary. It’s not something either one of them seeks, or desires. But still Sherlock feels honoured to receive it. “I can’t imagine anyone who could put up with Mycroft. God help whoever it is,” he continues, still lying. “Except you, of course, Andrea. You are truly an angel.”

“Nice save, Sherlock,” Andrea replies drily.

“And so for that piece of news, what do I owe you, my dear?” Sherlock asks, deciding he’s distracted the executive assistant enough to try and extract the information he’s really after.

There’s a pause and he imagines Andrea is running through her mental checklist of favours. “I need an escort to a charity fundraiser event. You know who from the Cabinet is going to be there so you understand why I need someone.”

“Why haven’t you let Mycroft handle him yet?”

“Well isn’t that rather like applying a sledgehammer to crack a nut?”

“What am I then?”

“My very own nutcracker?”

Sherlock laughs. “You just want me for my body!”

“Well that is an advantage,” Andrea teases and Sherlock can picture the devilish smile she’s sporting. “And you can dance, which does make these awfully dull soirees a little more entertaining. Black tie.”

“Must I?”

Andrea’s reply is interrupted by a second phone ringing in the background. “Give me a moment, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother replying. Merely listens as he waits for Andrea to return and confirm the date so he can casually ask about Mycroft’s calendar. He’s just starting to plan out the tests he’ll run using the tongues Molly has promised when Andrea’s second conversation snags his interest.

_Wonderful, Sarah. What time did you book the table for? … Eight. For two._

_And you’ve moved that meeting at … yes, Mr Holmes will need the car to get there._

_No. Mr Bond will meet Mr Holmes there._

_Right… not that I’m aware of but you know how things get when Mr Bond is involved._

_He’s in a flirty mood too, god help us all. No, Sarah. You’re to stay at your current location._

His mind races as he assimilates the information he’s just overheard. Sherlock can’t begin to catalogue his unsolicited feelings – numb, sick, anger. _Bond._ He’s so distracted that he hangs up on Andrea – an act that will necessitate an apology in the near future if he wants to avert the certainty of revenge.

The text is a mistake. Mycroft meant to send it to James _bloody_ Bond.

He feels like he’s going to throw up as he’s struck with the sudden realisation that Bond is the agent Mycroft rescued last night. Of course Mycroft would involve Bond in his operations – his brother is much too enamoured with the MI6 agent.

Sherlock remembers just how much he **_hates_** Bond. Months of not thinking about the agent has dulled his memories it seems. And now the blunt, idiotic, flirting, irritating _man-slut_ was back. Near Mycroft.

He needs a plan. Fast.

 

* * *

 

“As debriefs go, that was fairly painless.”

“I think you’ll find it helps if you don’t kill anyone or destroy anything, James.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Or bed someone.”

“Business perks.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes even as he types in the last set of intelligence data from James’ debrief into his laptop. “I imagine Mallory will want to conduct his own debrief.”

Bond snorts. “I might just go hide somewhere until he gets fed up and sends me on another mission.”

“Do try to stay away from rooftops.”

“Mycroft. I didn’t know you cared.”

His reply of _I don’t_ is interrupted by a sound. One that Mycroft immediately recognises and knows. Intimately.

It’s Sherlock.

Moaning. The delicious, delightful noises his little brother makes when Mycroft kisses and sucks a trail all the way down his lovely, lithe body.

His hands immediately fly to his pockets to find his phone but he fumbles when he notices the leer the James is directing at him. The MI6 agent looks far too delighted for his liking, with a smart remark at the tip of his tongue no doubt. But the dark look on Mycroft’s face gives the blond pause.

As his fingers close around and extract his phone, it makes the same sound again. “Bugger,” Mycroft swears. His fingers slide along the glass and metal as he unlocks the phone.

“Mycroft Holmes.” James ice-blue eyes run the length of Mycroft, who can’t help the slight shiver under the intense look. It seems the MI6 agent is no longer cowed. “Is that _you_ sounding so sensual and wanton?”

“ _James!”_

The sound – Sherlock moaning – repeats several times in quick succession. Mycroft scowls at his phone as he continues to access various menus and settings. Sherlock the cause and instigator, no doubt. Although exactly when his brother found the opportunity to reprogram his phone is quite another matter.

The why another pressing question.

“Oh. That’s not you,” James continues. Makes a deduction. “It’s _Sherlock_.”

Mycroft’s fingers press various icons and buttons to silence his phone but he’s being thwarted by the near-constant stream of texts. He grits his teeth. _No-one_ has the right to hear Sherlock like this, except him. Refuses to answer the agent.

“Good god man. What were you doing to make Sherlock moan quite like _that_ , Mycroft?” James asks. His voice is laden with innuendo.

“Nothing I care to share with you, James,” Mycroft retorts.

“So stingy. The both of you!” James complains good-naturedly. “You know my offer is still-“

He misses the end of James’ sentence as he finally manages to open one of the many text messages and catches a glimpse of lips – a shot obviously taken at very close range to the camera. He’s kissed, licked, bitten and sucked those lips often enough to instantly identify them as Sherlock’s. The image blurs and refocuses into a very short video of Sherlock blowing a kiss to the camera – to Mycroft – finishing with a flirtatious, cheeky wink.

Mycroft wonders if this is his brother’s strange way of exacting revenge. While he’s been careful not to mention James to Sherlock the previous evening, he would not be surprised if his brother has somehow inferred the connection.

If it is a form of revenge, Mycroft decides he’s going to need more than flowers tonight – his brother has proven himself to become irrationally volatile where James Bond is involved. And a vast reserve of will-power to prevent himself from strangling Sherlock.

The texts finally stop as do the repeated sounds of Sherlock’s moaning much to Mycroft’s relief. A few swipes of his screen and with his phone now in silent mode he begins the painstaking task of removing Sherlock’s changes.

“Well I have some good news at least. I won’t be harassing you for a dinner date tonight,” James comments.

Mycroft merely glances at the other man. Sees James is tapping away at his own phone. “That is good news for you since I already have plans.”

“It’s a blind date.”

“You are always one for a challenge, James. And you do prefer to flirt with the risks of the unknown.”

“At least I’m not the one who’s having dinner with an irate, jealous Sherlock.”

Mycroft huffs but doesn’t respond to the barb. Mainly because he knows James is entirely right. He’s already looking forward to dinner with Sherlock.

He can only hope the building is still standing and London safe and whole once they’re done.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore what the 'domestic' aspect of the brother's relationship might look like - after all, it can't **all** be (kinky) sex, cases and angst. This is the result. Floss might be needed I'm afraid.
> 
> Edit to add - I've just failed on the angst part I'm afraid, but I can promise it isn't serious. Jealous!Sherlock is more funny in this anything else. We're getting to the end now - just need to decide how (un)smutty this will be and try and rewatch TSoT.


End file.
